


you never do nothin' to save your doggone soul

by Azzandra



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Caretaking, F/M, Fluff, Pre-Relationship, kink meme fill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-17
Updated: 2015-11-17
Packaged: 2018-05-02 03:30:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5232275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Azzandra/pseuds/Azzandra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Four times Nick looked out for the Sole Survivor, and one time she looked out for him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	you never do nothin' to save your doggone soul

**Author's Note:**

> Written [for the Fallout kink meme.](http://falloutkinkmeme.livejournal.com/6099.html?thread=15647187#t15647187)

**1.**  
  
All things considered, she'd taken to looting pretty well for a vaultie, and one who'd had such special circumstances to begin with. Oh, she scrunched her nose and bit back her disgust when she had to touch corpses, but her obvious discomfort didn't stop her from rifling all the pockets, and all the lining of the clothing after she'd learned that was where people sewed in their more valuable items.  
  
Phil was willing to power through a lot of unpleasantness, even to her own detriment.  
  
"Hey. Come on, leave it," he said, after she'd rifled through one raider's pockets, and then eyed his three other companions. "The light's gone low, you can check the rest in the morning if they're still here."  
  
"They'll be  _ripe_  by the morning," Phil replied with quiet horror in her voice.  
  
Rather than being a persuasive argument, that tone of voice convinced Nick even more that she'd had enough for one day.  
  
"We wouldn't want to get caught in another firefight in the dark. Come on." He tapped her shoulder, and the gesture was imperative enough that she actually rose to her feet and followed him.  
  
In the kitchen of a run-down diner, they found a mattress--someone had pulled it there, along with a toolbox serendipitously containing a stimpak and some duct tape. Nick built a fire, not that  _he_  needed it, and Phil pulled out some roasted radstag to eat. She gnawed on it listlessly, staring into the fire.  
  
Nick ran a diagnostic while keeping an eye on her, and once he was finished with that he took out a screwdriver and began tightening the screws that always came loose on his hand after a long day. It was a good thing he was paying more attention to Phil than to the screws, because right before his eyes she began slowly tilting forwards and then falling.  
  
If he'd had skin, he would have jumped out of it right then, but instead he jumped forward to his knees and pushed Phil by the shoulders before she fell face-first into the fire. She'd fallen asleep sitting up, and now she flinched awake, an instant of wide-eyed panic flashing across her face as she scrambled back.  
  
Nick thought it'd been because of her almost falling, but as the panic ratcheted up and her hand scrambled at her pack hastily, he looked down and realized his tie had caught fire when he'd reached over the flames for Phil.  
  
He had a moment to spit out a curse before water splashed right into his face and down his torso.   
  
The tie sputtered out, and Nick looked up at Phil, who was holding a half-empty bottle of purified water and staring at him in horror.  
  
"Oh my god, Nick, are you alright?" she asked.  
  
"Come on, you've seen me survive worse things than a light shower," he said, slanting a reassuring grin at her. He inspected the damage on the tie, and determined he'd ruined clothing much more spectacularly before.  
  
Phil let out a shuddering sigh and rubbed a hand over her face.  
  
"Jesus, I'm so sorry," she said. "I think I nodded off."  
  
"Don't apologize," he said, "you need the sleep. Maybe try the mattress, though. Might be less hard on our clothes."  
  
She gave a weak thready laugh, more apology than amusement. She let him guide her to the mattress, and send her off to sleep without argument for once.  
  
In the quiet night, Nick lit himself a cigarette and let it burn out in his hand as he watched Phil in her fitful sleep. He was going to keep a closer eye on her.

* * *

 

 **2.**  
  
It was after they emerged from a ghoul-infested building that could now boast about being  _formerly_  ghoul-infested when Nick noticed it.  
  
She had this thing about glasses. He was sure he'd seen her do this at least once before, but he hadn't thought much of it at the time. Now, as she took out two pairs of glasses she'd scavenged from inside the building, and removed her own to try them on, he began to wonder.  
  
She placed on one of the new glasses, and looked up to the billboards, blinking and squinting. Then she took the second pair, placed them on her face, and repeated the process. Finally, she put on her original pair, then switched between it and one of the newly looted ones in quick succession.  
  
"Nearsighted?" he asked, voicing his conclusion about this display.  
  
Phil looked momentarily sheepish.  
  
"I neglected to take my glasses with me as I was fleeing nuclear holocaust," she said dryly--a bit forced, he could tell. "And unfortunately, the Wasteland seems a bit scarce on optometrists." She sighed. "Probably for the best. If some of the people we went up against were better shots, we'd be in a lot more trouble."  
  
"But the ones you have, do they help?" he asked.  
  
Phil placed her eyeglasses back on.  
  
"They're near enough to my prescription that I can see better, but they still give me headaches sometimes."  
  
Nick made a sound of acknowledgment, and they moved on.  
  
Phil probably forgot all about the short conversation immediately after, because the next time she was in Diamond City and she dropped by the Valentine Detective Agency, she did not expect to see Nick open a drawer full of eyeglasses.  
  
"See if anything in here suits you better," he said.  
  
She looked at him, surprised and touched and with a bit of a glint in her eyes like she was blinking back tears.  
  
"There's no way Myrna sold you this stuff," she said.  
  
"Hah! No. But she's not the only game in town. I've got ways," he said, tapping his nose.  
  
This made her smile, and at least there were no tears in her eyes.   
  
"I should really be outside for this," she said, picking up the drawer entirely. "On the roof, maybe? Does this place have a way to the roof?"  
  
And that was how they ended up on the roof, Phil drinking beer, and him chugging on a can of oil, as she went through each pair of eyeglasses in the drawer and tried to read shop signs, badly.

* * *

 

 **3.**  
  
The thing about the Wasteland was that they either toughened you up, or chewed and spat you out. So far, Phil hadn't been spat out, but that didn't mean there wasn't anything chewing at her.  
  
He could see that soft sadness when she passed a shelf and her eyes fell on a toy. He'd caught more than once the longing in her eyes when she picked up a baby rattle, or a toy truck, or a rocketship. She always touched the rocketships with hesitant fingers, like she might actually break them through two hundred years of grime and rust.   
  
And, well, it wasn't like Nick couldn't see what was happening. It wasn't like anyone with eyes and the slightest clue couldn't see what was playing out in her head when she got in those moods. Shaun was probably getting too old to play with stuff like that every passing day, if he ever did in the first place, and Phil had to know it.  
  
Nick stepped next to her, looking at the shelf of toys. A teddy bear, a toy truck, a tattered, ruined stack of comic books.  
  
"You know you can throw anything you don't want to haul my way," he said.  
  
She flinched out of her strange mood and looked at him.  
  
"What? No. No, I wasn't looking to take anything," she said.  
  
"Well, sure, you're probably too old for these. Might find someone who isn't, though..."  
  
It wasn't phrased like a suggestion, and he didn't expect anything--might be too painful, might make her feel worse--but it was for her to decide. He saw Phil's eyebrows knit together in thought.  
  
She took the first toy off the shelves and handed it to him, and he put it in his pocket, and patted it down cheerily, and then she took another and another, every toy she could get her hands on while they scoured the building, stuffing them between ammo and stimpaks and bottles of water as if they were just as vital a lifeline as those objects.  
  
And the thing about kids was, they're kind of everywhere, running around and running amok. When they weren't being complete little shits, Phil would reach into her pack and take out something for them. She gifted a babydoll to a shy pair of twins, she handed a train to a rambunctious little twerp with a conductor's hat, she left a stack of board games at a settlement's schoolhouse, and that didn't even cover all the stuff she'd give out whenever the kids in Diamond City saw them return from an outing and began to swarm them.  
  
And whenever she saw any kids eying Nick with caution or suspicion, she turned to him and took out a toy out of his coat pocket, and suddenly he was more Santa's helper than scary synth to them.  
  
It mended something inside her to do this, Nick realized much later. She loved kids in general, not just the one she'd lost. There was still the longing in her eyes, but it was a distant second to the fondness in her smile when she handed something off. There was something lighter in her manner now.  
  
He still didn't expect it when, sitting next to each other at the Dugout Inn's bar, she placed an arm over his shoulder and leaned over to place a chaste kiss on his cheek.  
  
"You're a good man, Nick," she said. "I won't forget this."  
  
Funny, but at some point, she'd become more than someone in need of help to him. He felt unusually gratified to hear that from her.

* * *

**4.**  
  
Phil couldn't have been in Diamond City for an hour when she walked into the detective agency.  
  
"Piper's not with you?" Nick asked, looking up to see Phil raking back wet hair from her face.  
  
"We dropped in at Publick Occurrences and I lost her there," Phil replied with a grin. "Walked out again juuust in time to catch the rain, though."  
  
Nick laughed, but she really was drenched. He rose from the desk, where he'd been studying the folder for a new case, and dug through one of the cabinets. He found a dry set of clothing--slacks and vest--and handed them to Phil.  
  
"Wouldn't want you catching a cold now," he said. "Go up and change. I promise I won't peek. Gentleman's honor."  
  
Phil chortled in response, and poked at his chest.  
  
"You're adorable," she said. "I know you wouldn't peek."  
  
She took the clothes, kissed his cheek in thanks, and sashayed upstairs.  
  
Nick sat back at his desk and listened for a while, to the wet squelch of clothing being put aside and then a soft rustle.  
  
"Do you happen to have a towel up here?" she asked.  
  
"No, sorry. An oil rag, maybe. Try the drawers, if you find a spare shirt or something, you can use that to dry off."  
  
"That's a terrible waste of a clean shirt."  
  
"I didn't say it would be clean."  
  
She laughed, but there was a sound of drawers being opened and closed.  
  
"Got it," she said.  
  
"Good, good. Now get some sleep. You look tired."  
  
"I'm not  _that_  tired," Phil muttered. "Wake me up in an hour or so."  
  
He had absolutely no intention of waking Phil up until morning, but he didn't mention that part. He made some non-committal noise instead, and returned his attention to the folder on his desk.  
  
The best thing about not needing sleep was that at least he could spend the entire night banging his head against a problem. Snatches of the original Nick Valentine's memories floated to the surface unpleasantly, of long nights just like this spent poring over cases, with only a mug of cold coffee and a painful crick in his neck for company.   
  
Maybe more than snatches. When he straightened his neck, he thought he could feel a touch of strain between his shoulder blades, like a jab of phantom pain on flesh he knew he no longer had--he  _never_  had. He lit himself a cigarette in frustration; this, too, a remnant of an old life not his, but didn't it just figure he'd be just unlucky enough to inherit a dead man's oral fixation? Nicotine did nothing for him, but the feeling of the cigarette against his lips was still grounding.  
  
He checked the time and noted, with surprise, that it was already morning. Phil should be having breakfast soon.  
  
He nipped out and got some noodles from Takahashi, and when he returned, he quietly padded upstairs. He'd planned only to leave the noodles by her bedside, so she'd be waken by the smell, but something about the way she was curled up on the bed worried him.  
  
He'd seen her sleep plenty of times, curled on her side with her left arm out in front of her so her Pip-Boy wouldn't bother her. She'd end up in a wide sprawl as soon as she actually fell asleep, though, tossing from one side to another and throwing limbs every which way. She was an active sleeper, Nick had learned.  
  
Now, though, she was bunched up in a ball, even her left arm pulled in, with the Pip-Boy jabbing into her ribs in a way that seemed uncomfortable. She was shivering slightly, and Nick thought she was cold, but when he touched her face, she was actually burning up.  
  
He bit back a curse. He should have checked up on her through the night; it seemed she'd gotten herself a fever at some point. Stupid, stupid. He hadn't even had a blanket for her.  
  
Better late than never, Nick thought, ripping off his trench coat to drape it over her. Then, on second thought, he tucked the trench coat in around her, making sure she was bundled tight.  
  
She woke up just as she finished, and looked at him with glazed eyes.  
  
"Nick?" she said, her voice unusually rough, even for having just woken up.  
  
"How do you feel?" he asked.  
  
"Bad," was her response, which was not a good sign in either its shortness or its honesty.

"I'll get Doctor Sun," he said.  
  
"Don't leave," she said, a note of pleading breaking her voice, and then, "I smell noodles."  
  
"Best overpriced noodles in town, just for you," he promised. "But I need to get the doc. You're sick, sweetheart."  
  
The endearment escaped his lips on its own, and the tenderness in it took even him by surprise. She did not seem to notice, though.  
  
"...Oh. I  _feel_  sick," she agreed. But then she reached out and grabbed Nick's hand before he could move away. "I don't want to be sick alone."  
  
Her grip was weak, and her hand slid off on its own because she didn't have the strength to hold on. But now Nick wasn't so sure about leaving anymore.  
  
Ellie. He'd wait until Ellie got to the office, and send her to get the doctor. She had to arrive any minute now, anyway. Meanwhile...  
  
"Think you could eat something?" he asked.  
  
"Is it the noodles?"  
  
"It's the noodles."  
  
She sat up awkwardly, slumped against the wall and covered with his trench coat, and since she couldn't seem to raise her arms, Nick fed her. He made sure she drank a lot of the broth so she'd at least keep hydrated, but she only ate a bit of the noodles before she shook her head and slipped down to the mattress again.  
  
Nick sighed and put the noodles aside. He made sure to take her Pip-Boy off before tucking her in again--she let out a distressed little 'no' as he did, making him suspect she was edging a bit into delirium and thinking he was a raider trying to rob her.  
  
Ellie, thankfully, came in just as he was stealthily making his way down the stairs. He put his finger to his lips, gesturing for her to be quiet, and pointed up.  
  
"Phil came through the rain yesterday, and now she's down with a fever. Get Doc Sun over here as soon as you can."  
  
Ellie's expression turned grave, and she nodded, rushing out the door again.  
  
From upstairs drifted a weak voice, too low to make out properly. His absence had already been noticed. Nick climbed the stairs again, and sat on the edge of the mattress, placing his good hand against her forehead. Sensors told him she was much too hot, and some irrational instinct which he probably inherited from the original Nick told him to curl up with Phil and hold her.  
  
When she reached out, clawing at the mattress as weakly as a newborn kitten, he slid his hand under hers and she curled her fingers around his. She sighed, then, a delicate sound of relief.  
  
"Nate, stay..." she murmured.  
  
It stabbed at his heart, even though he didn't have one in the traditional sense, and even though he knew her husband had been a good man. He had no reason to be upset about a feverish, delirious woman reaching out for comfort to the person she loved the most--even if he was now a decade dead.  
  
But this was probably what had him leaning forward and pressing a kiss against her temple.  
  
"It's Nick, sweetheart," he whispered into her ear.  
  
Something in her expression relaxed, and her frown smoothed over.  
  
"...Oh," she said, as if pleasantly surprised, and then fell silent as she drifted into either sleep of feverish stupor.

* * *

 

+ **5.**  
  
That damn screw in his hand was loose again. And after getting caught in the blast from that mine, the rest of him wasn't doing so hot, either.  
  
"Hey, could we stop here for a moment? I need to run some diagnostics."  
  
Phil turned from where she was peering out into the hallway, and nudged the door closed.  
  
"Sure," she said, walking towards him.   
  
He patted his pockets for his screwdriver, and frowned when he couldn't find it. He'd switched out his coat, given that his last one had been charred beyond practical use in another explosion. They sure did meet a lot of people with grenades these days. But the long and short of it was, he'd forgotten the screwdriver.  
  
Phil seemed to guess as much, because she produced one from her own pocket.  
  
"Thanks," he said, but when he reached for it she shook her head and pulled it away from his fingers.  
  
"No, let me," she said, and holstered her gun as she came closer.  
  
She'd seen him do this enough times that she knew exactly the problem spots he usually struggled with. Her fingers, calloused but still nothing but soft human flesh, came to hold his exposed wrist, and with a gentleness most people would not associate with screwdrivers, she began tightening the screw.  
  
She was, strictly speaking, a lot more delicate than necessary, but there was something about it that Nick found compelling. He watched the twist of her wrist with particular fascination, thinking of the flutter of a pulse beneath the smooth skin.  
  
"This tight enough?" she asked, looking up at him.  
  
He was caught in her gaze for a moment too long before he replied, "Could be a bit tighter."  
  
She smiled at him, such a casual, off-handed gesture for how much it affected him, and returned her attention to his hand.  
  
After she finished, she gave it a kiss 'to make it better', and that was when Nick knew he was in it deep.

**Author's Note:**

> I have written more Nick/Phil, with some actual pay-off, and you can find it [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6077070/chapters/13929030).


End file.
